


Desperate Times

by babybrotherdean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blizzards & Snowstorms, Cannibalism, Dark, M/M, Werewolves, or perhaps, pseudo-cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-20 03:27:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5990314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babybrotherdean/pseuds/babybrotherdean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fire gets a little lower, his stomach aches, and he thinks about the little boy in his arms who’s going to wake up hungry. He thinks about the empty wrappers piled in the corner of the room and he thinks about the dead werewolf outside, preserved in the cold, and he takes a deep breath.</p>
<p>Maybe Sam doesn’t need to know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desperate Times

**Author's Note:**

> _Anonymous said: sin request: sam and dean having to resort to eating a monster (like werewolf or something) after being stranded during a hunt in the wilderness_
> 
> The boys are young here (16 and 12), but the Weecest content is minimal. Enjoy?

It’s been two days since their father left to get help, and it’s been four hours since Dean fed his brother their last granola bar, since he found himself licking the wrapper and Sammy’s fingertips for any lingering crumbs or a glob of the jam inside. It’s humiliating, in a way, how hungry he is; he’s supposed to be stronger than this, sixteen years old and a man like his father wants him to be. But his stomach is growling, clawing at itself, has him curling into a tight little ball to try to relieve some of the hunger pangs to no avail, and with every minute that passes, his hopes of returning to civilization anytime soon seem to shrink.

They’re holed up in a tiny shack, the sort of place that Dean would’ve deemed uninhabitable in any conditions besides the blizzard that rages outside. One room, fifteen by fifteen if Dean’s pacing is reliable, with one old bed tucked away in the corner, rusty springs and mothball sheets, no fireplace and no running water. It’d been their only option for shelter when the storm took them, a last resort for survival when the tail end of their hunt ended up going south.

The werewolf, at least, is dead. Its body is outside, and Dean’s sure that if he had the willpower to step out the front door into the howling winds and two-foot snowfall, he’d be able to pick it out, somewhere a couple dozen feet off their front step. There’d been no time to burn the thing, and they’d left it there, bloodied and in some half-man, half-wolf form, twisted and mangled and slowly freezing under sub-zero temperatures. Dean’s only comfort is that it’s been hit with a pair of silver bullets straight to the heart, and that it hasn’t moved since he took it down in the first place.

Werewolf or not, though, he can’t help but be scared. There’s been no word of rescue, yet, even though their dad promised to come back with help as soon as he found it. Dean’s been tasked with keeping his brother alive in this freezing hellscape, and without any food left to nourish his skinny body, they’re quickly running out of options.

Sam’s curled up by their makeshift fire pit now, a circle they’ve cleared in the middle of the room where they’ve been working through rotting furniture and yellowing books. It’s not much, but it keeps them warm at night and lets them melt snow and boil the water to drink. It’s something. 

“Dean,” he says, and his voice is too timid for the hardheaded eleven-year-old that Dean knows and loves, “when’s Dad coming back?”

Dean crosses the room slowly, socked feet on cold cement, and crouches beside his brother. Takes a moment to steady himself, fingertips on the floor. “Soon,” he says, injecting all the confidence he can into his tone. It sounds hollow to his own ears, and he can only hope he isn’t so transparent to Sam. “He’s just gotta find someone with a snowmobile or somethin’ that he can borrow, right? Then he’ll come get us.”

Sam still looks despondent, so Dean turns and presses a kiss to his temple with cracked, dry lips. “How ‘bout you get some rest?” he says softly. It’s hard to tell night from day in this room, when the sun is hidden by angry clouds and all their light is filtered through dirty, charred glass windows, but Sam’s eyelids are drooping and he figures that’s as good an indicator as any. “I can lie down with you for a bit, if you want.”

For a moment, Sam looks like he’s going to protest, lips parted, but then he deflates, small shoulders curling in a little as he nods. “Please,” he whispers, one hand coming out and curling in Dean’s shirt. “Can’t sleep without you.”

It hadn’t been true before they came here, and Dean’s heart aches as he wonders how it’ll be when they leave. Regardless, he pulls his brother to his feet and hopes Sam doesn’t notice his momentary dizzy spell or the way his hand tightens around Sam’s. It’s a short few steps to the bed, and he lets Sam crawl in first before getting up in the bed behind him, curling around his brother to shield him from the air where the fire doesn’t keep it warm. 

“Night, Sammy,” he whispers while Sam moulds himself against Dean’s chest. Dean wraps an arm around Sam’s middle and holds him close, pets over his tummy gently and pretends like he has something to feed his brother next time he wakes up. “Sweet dreams.”

Sam’s fingers curl gently in the sheets underneath them and breathes out, eventually starting to relax. “Love you,” he mumbles into his pillow, and that’s all Dean gets out of him before his brother is falling asleep.

Dean doesn’t know how long he lays there. The fire gets a little lower, his stomach aches, and he thinks about the little boy in his arms who’s going to wake up hungry. He thinks about the empty wrappers piled in the corner of the room and he thinks about the dead werewolf outside, preserved in the cold, and he takes a deep breath.

Maybe Sam doesn’t need to know.

It’s a little tricky to slip away without waking his brother, but soon enough Dean’s pulling on his boots and coat, hesitates before picking up the machete he’s got at the door. _Just in case,_ their dad had said, because monsters don’t take holidays and there’s no telling what might come for them while he’s gone. 

It’s cold outside, as expected, and Dean’s already shivering as he pulls the door shut behind himself. He tugs his collar a little higher to try to protect his neck and starts picking his way through the snow, eyes squinted against the wind and precipitation, trying to find the body.

He ends up tripping over the thing, hisses out a pained breath as he lands on his hands and knees. He’s quick to try to warm his hands again under his arms, machete already half-buried in the snow, but Dean knows it’ll only get worse the longer he’s out here. Might as well get it over with.

The arm is the first part he digs up from the snow, but he knows that the thing’s leg is going to have more meat on it. His fingers are red and trembling and numb by the time he unearths the whole body, and he tries not to look at its face as he picks up his machete again. Quick and painless, and he’ll be able to feed his brother. No problem.

As it turns out, frozen flesh takes much more force to cut through than that of living creatures. It’s like striking the trunk of a tree, and by the time Dean gets through enough of the thigh muscle to hit bone, tears are freezing to his eyelashes, making it even harder to see. His hands are shaking, his arms ache with the effort, and he can’t see straight, either, his hunger and exhaustion creeping up on him all over again.

Time blurs into a constant ache in his shoulders and the gradual numbing of his extremities. It’s exhausting; he feels like he’s going to pass out more than once, and suspects it’s only the sheer cold keeping him conscious. When he finally severs the limb completely, he nearly collapses out of sheer relief, but he knows he can do that once he gets inside. He can’t afford to get stuck out here.

The leg feels like it weighs a million pounds, and the thirty feet to return to the shack is a thousand miles, battling against the cold and the wind and his own exhaustion. Dean’s hands are almost too cold to fumble the door open, but he finally manages, slips inside and shuts the door and finally lets himself slide to the floor.

Sam is, thankfully, still asleep. The fire is burning lower, and slowly, Dean works up the ambition to stand once more, legs shaky under him. Discards his coat and kicks his boots off and drags the leg with him, doesn’t think about it too hard as he starts ridding it of the shoe, sock, and denim. They join the fire alongside some new logs, and Dean gets to work.

All things considered, it smells like cooking meat.

Dean is far from a proper chef, but he knows how to prepare raw meat, and cooking pseudo-human flesh isn’t all that different from a steak. He slices it up a little and counts his blessings that the bleeding is minimal, gags when his fingers slip on sharp bones. Staggers outside again to puke after skinning it, and it’s where the bones end up, too, once he’s done.

It’s messy and horrifying and he’s lightheaded by the time he’s done, but it looks less like a person and more like the meal his stomach is begging him for. He ignores it for now, though, because his eyes are drifting across the room and settling on the boy still sleeping on the tiny bed.

Sammy doesn’t need to know. Sammy _can’t_ know.

He smiles as he rouses his brother and makes up a story about a stray deer. Sam looks a little upset that Dean hurt the imaginary animal, but his eyes are wide and he’s quick to accept the meat he’s offered. He wrinkles his nose and says that it doesn’t taste like he’s used to, and Dean gives a hollow laugh because “I’m guess it could use a little salt.”

He goes to bed that night with a full stomach and a tight chest. Sam is happier, smiles at him and gives him a tiny kiss on the cheek before curling up and falling asleep, and Dean wonders if it’s worth it.

It’s hard to stay quiet as he cries himself to sleep, but Sam doesn’t stir and Dean doesn’t throw up again.

No one ever needs to know.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! <3


End file.
